


I Hate Myself.

by PandoraButler



Series: Sherlock One-Shots [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraButler/pseuds/PandoraButler
Summary: Sherlock has always had a hard time with his 'intelligence' now it is getting to the best of him...





	I Hate Myself.

Sherlock has been smart his whole life. He has noticed things whether he wanted to or not. The girl on the street just broke up with her boyfriend. She had been crying. Her makeup is ruined. Her eyes are puffy and red. How does he know it's a breakup? There are signs of a ring on her left hand. Engagement ring. It is no longer there. Tan lines. They've been engaged for quite some time but have still not married. Why? She just found him cheating on her with another woman, two hours ago, maybe three.

The man walking into the grocery story is jobless. His suit is worn down and old. It doesn't fit him. He probably got it at a thrift store not to long ago. It his list last chance at trying to impress the next job offer. It hasn't been working for him. Sherlock can tell by the look on his face and the bags underneath his eyes. His general aura feels depleted, depressed, deprived. Will he ever get a job? Probably not until he stops giving his brother's wife money. 

Failed marriages. New engagements. Cheating husbands. Broken promises. New pets. Loved ones lost. Sherlock sees them all. He doesn't want to. He just does and he hates himself for it. The only way to turn off this annoying ability is through the overuse and abuse of drugs. Any drug will do as long as it fogs his brain long enough. He hates thinking. Thinking means noticing. Noticing means talking. Talking means saying something that he didn't mean. Turn of events such as these have been taking place Sherlock's whole life. It is time to stop. It is time to end. 

He'd be better off dead. He'd be better off if he never existed. Sherlock has begun to think these thoughts recently. No, it wasn't recently. He has always thought this way. He has thought like this ever since he witnessed the death of a dog in the street. Ever since he saw his first dead body. The dead are better off than the living. He will always think so. 

The dead don't think. The dead don't know. The dead don't do anything. It must be nice sleeping all day without a care in the world. That's what Sherlock thinks, especially now, now that he is standing on the edge of a building. He is looking down on all of the people below and observing. He is noticing things he doesn't want to observe. He is thinking things he doesn't want to think. Why don't people ever listen to him when he tells them what their problems are? Why do they always want to slap him? Or throw him off a cliff?

Well. Maybe he should do the world a favor. Maybe he should just jump off the cliff without being pushed. It would be better that way, wouldn't it? Sherlock steps on the edge of St. Bart's hospital. He is looking down at them all and smiling. It would be nice, to jump. It would be nice, to die. He wants to die so badly. He wants to cease existing. In due time, he reminds himself. In due time, he repeats again. Everyone dies. Everyone stops. You just have to wait your turn. 

Sherlock steps off the ledge and reenters the building. He goes to the room, with the body, with Molly, and begins his experiment. He angrily slaps the body with the riding crop in his hand. He does it with a brutal passion, one that he didn't realize existed. How long has he been suppressing his inner turmoil? How long must he continue to do so? Sighing he puts the riding crop down. He walks out the door, answering Molly without realizing he is doing it. That is just how fast his brain works. That is just how quickly he dismisses the things he sees. He doesn't wish to hurt Molly. He just wishes that she would give up. It wouldn't be good for either of them, if she fell in-love with a man that wishes to die. A man that would look Death in the face and smile. She would get herself hurt. It is better to let her heart break here than to crush her further down the road. No attachments. No sentiment. No will to live. That is how Sherlock Holmes has lived till now. That is how he wishes to continue. No one created the monster. He created himself. For protection. For safety. 

Sherlock sits in the lab room staring at the specimen under the microscope. He sighs. An individual, two individuals, walk into the room. Sherlock's first instinct is to say "Afghanistan or Iraq?" and he does. He doesn't even look up at the person to do it. He just does. That is his life. His brain controls his body. His heart doesn't respond anymore. However, when he does look up, when he does see the man standing there, with his cane, with the agony behind the expression, Sherlock doesn't know how to respond. If he leaves this man alone, with his gun, with his empty apartment, this man will kill himself. Sherlock doesn't talk for a moment. His mouth parts, just a bit, as he processes what he should do. Conversation continues. Sherlock responds instinctively while his brain processes his next move. 

He needs to save him. He does. He doesn't understand why. Is it because they are so different? And yet so similar? Sherlock ponders the thought. Yes. Yes, they should do nicely. Congratulations Mike. Thank you for bringing Sherlock such a fine specimen of a man. He will thank you, mentally, as to thank you verbally would be too out of character. Sherlock has worked long and hard to build this character. Please, do not let it falter now. 

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker St," Sherlock winks. He grins, slightly, and shuts the door to go off and do his thing. Will the man take the salvation offered him in the face by the strangest man he has ever met? Or will he stay, in his dreary life, thinking "nothing ever happens to me" and go down the road that leads to death.

Well, either way, death is always surrounding him. Why not walk side by side with the man that wants to die the most? It couldn't very well hurt, could it? Perhaps they will grow closer, closer than they ever thought they might. It would be nice to have a friend.

A friend like Dr. John Watson.


End file.
